


Sir is For the Bedroom

by orphan_account



Category: Alternate Universe - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Feels, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Car Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, F/M, Hair-pulling, Intoxication, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Skinny Dipping, Slow Dancing, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Junior year of college is here and there’s an incredibly attractive, new professor teaching one of your literature classes. Everyone is swooning over his good looks, charming personality, and subtle accent that somehow makes everything he says (yes, even the boring book stuff) sound like he’s flirting with you. You’re young, you’re bright, and apparently, you catch Professor Pascal’s eye as temptations are tested and passions flourish when you find yourself repeatedly falling straight into his grasp.
Relationships: Pedro Pascal/Reader, Pedro Pascal/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 183





	1. Part 1

Beer tastes fucking awful, you don’t even know how people can just sip it casually like it’s fucking wine at a dinner party. But this isn’t a dinner party, it’s your birthday party and now that you’re officially twenty-one you can order whatever the fuck you want to get plastered with. 

First, you settled with a vodka martini because a martini sounded bougie for your first official and legal alcoholic drink. Then a margarita because one of your friends didn’t want to finish hers. And now you’re on your third shot of tequila on a very empty stomach and this night may or may not end with you projectile vomiting everywhere. Wouldn’t be your first time for that.

“One, two, three!” you all shout together, albeit slurred and horribly out of unison.

After licking the salt off of your hand, you down the shot and grimace at the burn as it flows down your throat. To top it off, you bit into a lime just to make the whole experience a tad more awful. The tequila shots aren’t a first for you either, but at least you can damage your liver in the presence of other mature adults. Just what is it about ruining your body that makes alcohol so damn enticing?

“Stace!” you yell over the booming music and animated chatter of other patrons. She doesn’t hear you. “Stace!” Her back is still turned towards you as she leans over the pool table aiming her shot. “Stacy!”

You manage to yell her name just as she’d released the cue stick causing her to choke in the process and completely miss the ball she was aiming for. “What the fuck!” she exclaims, turning around and staring at your with fury in her green eyes, “If I lose this game, I’ll have to give head to Grayson!”

“Why would you bet something like that?” Of course, she would bet something like that. 

“Well, if I win he has to eat me out, so I think that’s a pretty fair deal.”

Both of you are hammered and by the end of the conversation you’re holding each other’s hands like schoolgirls in playground games for no reason other than you’re best friends and you feel the need to. 

“I’m going to the bathroom and breaking the veil, I can’t hold it anymore,” you say, now swaying with Stacy for some reason. 

She furrows her brows. “Why are you telling me that? Just go.”

“So that you know where I am in case I don’t come back because I’ve passed out on the toilet.”

“Smart.” She flicks your forehead before pushing you towards the restrooms and you laugh because you stumble ungracefully from such a light shove.

You’ve taken maybe three steps before the doors suddenly disappear from view. Where did they go? You spin around and around, searching for the red, neon light that says RESTROOMS in capital letters; a bad idea because your stomach is swirling and the room is spinning and you just might pee in your underwear because fuck it. 

“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks, and amid the two’s of everything, a man this deep voice must belong to is the only solid, single thing in your vision like a beacon. 

“I desperately need to pee, but I took, like, two steps and lost the bathroom. If you could just kindly direct me while also staying out of line with my mouth because I also might puke all over you, that would be great.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest as he nods. “No problem, I will be your bathroom guide.” He takes a gentle hold of your elbow, leading you in the opposite direction of where you were originally going and now you feel stupid because it was literally right there the whole time. 

“Thank you, sir.” You place a hand on his shoulder and— _ wow, he has a really nice neck, holy shit _ —burp unladylike. “I’m gonna go release the valve now.”

He smiles, and if it isn’t the cutest smile you’ve ever seen. “You do that.”

You salute him as you stumble into the bright, fluorescent lights of the bathroom, blinking in confusion as you see urinals lining the walls and men with their dicks out. “Oops, sorry, wrong bathroom.” You giggle, embarrassment nonexistent as the alcohol still flows heavily throughout your body despite the men all staring at you in horror. 

Heavy laughter hits your ears and you know exactly who it’s coming from. “Now I’m gonna go release the valve,” you announce to the mystery man with immaculate facial hair and perfectly disheveled… head-hair as you walk into the correct bathroom. 

When you finish, thoroughly relieved, and walk back out, mystery man is still there, leaning against the wall. Maybe you’re just horny, but his whole side profile, a silhouette against the neon lights of the bar, is honestly the biggest turn on you’ve ever had. He’s dressed very casually in dark-wash jeans, a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt  _ (good music taste) _ , and worn high-tops.

Clearly, he’s older than you, but he looks damn good. And you’re not a minor, so it’s not illegal! It’s a win-win situation here and you’re about to get dicked down by a nice gentleman who essentially helped you go pee. 

“You wanna go fuck?” 

The sip he had just taken is immediately spit out of his mouth in a glorious spray of amber liquid. You don’t know why your question is so funny to him, but you should say something else funny because his laugh is a sound you never want to stop hearing. 

“Perhaps another time when you’re not intoxicated.” With the back of his hand, he wipes the residue from his mouth while still chuckling.

You pout. “Damn, you’re one of the few nice guys not trying to roofie me. Guess I’ll head home, my head is killing me.”

“Did you drive here?”

_ And concerned for my wellbeing, too? What a man.  _ “No, our DD-” you flick your eyes from his deep brown ones to the crowd behind him only to see your DD chugging a bottle of something or other, “is apparently no longer our DD. Shit.”

“I’ll call you guys an Uber.”

Surprised, your eyes flick back to his, watching as he pulls out his phone. “Thanks.”

You and the three girls and one guy you’d invited to celebrate your birthday with all manage to squeeze into the Uber, Stacy opting to just lay on top of the three sat in the back as you take the passenger seat. Rolling the window down, sobriety already clearing the fog of your brain, you thank the mystery man one more time.

“Thank you, but you better not be paying for this otherwise I’ll have one too many debts owed to you.”

He smiles that cute smile again and your heart flutters completely and utterly willingly. “Too late, it’s already done. Get home safe, I hope you can find the bathroom if you need it.”

Your giggle is the last thing he hears as the Uber drives off into the night, the wind blowing your hair as you lean back into the seat. Interesting night. 

~ ~ ~

Here lies a problem: you haven’t bothered to do your laundry in weeks. You’ve got a single pair of underwear, the same bra you’ve been wearing for-fucking-ever, and scraps of mismatched clothing to choose from. Or you could choose from the pile of dirty clothes on the brink of toppling over in your hamper.

_ Fuck it,  _ you think, grabbing a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt of mysterious origins because sometimes things show up in your closet and you’re not entirely sure how they ended up there. Classes have started back up and your first-out-of-three-days-of-the-week is a nine a.m. literature studies. Looks should be the last thing on your mind.

Stacy, your roommate and previously mentioned best friend in this shitty, overly-priced, New York City apartment, unfortunately had to be out the door by six-thirty in order to make it to her seven a.m. You doubt she’ll be awake the next time, she has a tendency to show up the first day and then never again. 

Notebook? Check. Backpack? Check. Laptop  _ with  _ the charger? Your eyes scan your messy room for your charger before finding it half-hidden under your towel from that morning. Check. 

The classroom is more like a lecture all than anything, but at least the desks are individual this time, so you don’t have to share your space with another student trying to colonize the entire tabletop. 

Looking up, trying to find a spot as accessible and simultaneously remote as possible, you see Charlie waving at you like a madman. As you walk up the steps, you can tell he’s vibrating with pent up energy at a frequency bordering inhuman.

“How many shots of espresso did you have in your coffee this morning?” you ask, sitting down beside him and yawning.

“Six, but that’s not the point.” Charlie, with his dreadlocks flying as he looks around, leans in close as if he’s about to tell you a secret. “I heard this class has a hot, new professor teaching it. If he’s as attractive as they say, my gay ass is finna drop this class, I won’t be able to handle it.”

You laugh at his dramatics, pulling out your laptop and getting settled in your new seat. “What happened to Dr. Lee?”

“She died.”

You look over at him in shock. “Oh, shit, what happened?”

“Well, she was very old, so…”

You’re about to continue this riveting conversation when the sound of the door slamming has your attention down on the floor where, apparently, Charlie was right. Average size, average build, tan skin, and dark brown hair styled as he’d just gotten out of bed like someone in a movie. He wears a simple suit but takes the jacket off to hang it over the back of his chair, showing off a matching vest that has your thighs clenching involuntarily.

He’s rolling up the white sleeves of his undershirt to his elbows as he announces, “My name is Professor Pascal and welcome to Modern Literature.”

Without a word but with every kind of sass and drama you could imagine, Charlie stands up from his seat, grabbing his things hastily and shoving them in his arms, and proceeds to walk straight out of the classroom as everyone watches in bewilderment. Guess he wasn’t kidding. 

“Was my introduction that bad?” Professor Pascal jokes in an attempt to ease up the tension of the room after Charlie’s dramatic exit. 

But he was right, this Professor Pascal is indeed attractive. But you feel this lingering recognition floating at the back of your mind as if you know him from somewhere. And that’s all you can focus on, minus the contagious smile as he explains the mechanics of the class. 

Up until he says, “Now, I know the majority of you here are legally allowed to drink, so I suppose I’ll have to be lenient if some of you aren’t here every morning. I sincerely hope it’s because you’re hungover, not because you got lost on your way to the bathroom.”

_ Oh my god.  _ Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open as his eyes, a smirk curling at his mouth, meet with yours from across the room. Heat spreads across your face as you slowly cover as much of it as you can with your hands.  _ I’m gonna have to drop this class too, fuck me.  _ Except you can’t because you need it as a requirement.

For the rest of the period, you refuse to look anywhere other than your desk and by the end you’re surprised you haven’t burned a hole through it to emphasize your shame and embarrassment. It’s so bad that even once…  _ Professor Pascal _ dismisses the classes, you remain in your seat as a last-ditch effort to avoid the whole confrontation at all. Clearly, he doesn’t feel the same way because you can see him walking up the aisle in your peripheral once all the students have cleared.

“Did you make it home alright?” he asks, and the sound of his familiar voice sends shivers down your spine.

Finally, you look up from your safe spot and into his eyes that are shining with amusement. “I did. Thank you for calling and paying for that Uber.”

Placing his hands on the edge of your desk, he leans down into your personal space. “My pleasure, I couldn’t just let a pretty a girl like you fend for herself. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

It’s as you eye his plush lips pushed into a smolder that you suddenly remember very bluntly asking him to fuck you that night and a second, inner thought of if he might still now that you’re no longer drunk. 

But he doesn’t give you time to form a response because he’s leaning back much to your disappointment and walking back down the aisle where he backside is just as appealing as the front. “I’ll see you Wednesday, or maybe sooner.”

He says the latter with an implication that confuses you until you look down and see a blue sticky note on your laptop with a number scrawled onto it.  _ Charlie’s gonna lose his shit,  _ you think, smiling in shock and a few other things that you probably shouldn’t voice aloud. 


	2. Part 2

Underneath fairy lights and the unhealthy glare of the tv screen showing ‘Are You Still Watching?’, you lay on an unmade bed as your boyfriend hovers over you with his dick currently pumping in and out of you. His face melts with ecstasy as he grunts with each thrust as you lay there wondering when sex became such a chore. 

Of course, he can’t know that, so you put up a fake show of moaning, a repetition of “Garrett!” in his ear for good measure, and a face that you sincerely hope shows pleasure rather than boredom. Because this is far from the first time you’ve had to fake an orgasm and far from the last if you don’t break up with him soon enough. 

What’s stopping you? Well, nothing, really, except for the fact that you’re just desperately trying to elongate the inevitable conclusion of hurting his feelings because you simply don’t like him anymore. It’s a confrontation you don’t want to deal with. Does that make you selfish? Very. It’s your suffering versus his, and the longer you keep this act up you’re essentially choosing his. 

Which is why, in moments like these when he’s horny and you’re… pliable, there’s so much more stopping you from getting off than just mere dissatisfaction. Eyes closed, you try to think of something—anything—to help; they way Garrett’s body feels over yours, hands gliding along your hips, dark hair tickling your neck as he kisses a breast—pause a minute. 

Garrett does not have dark hair. Garrett, in fact, has very light, very blond hair. Eyes fly open and for a brief second you see a face that is not your boyfriend’s, and that brief second of seeing your deepest, inner desire is just enough to excite you to climax. 

Garrett collapses on top of you causing nothing but this oddly constricting feeling to push at your chest. Quickly, like you’ve suddenly realized something very important (maybe you have), you scramble out from under his heaving body and begin collecting your previously discarded clothes. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, confusion furrowing his brows as he turns over with a lazy hand behind his head.

_ Screw the bra, I can just shove it in my bag.  _ “Um… I forgot I was meeting up with Stacy and if she finds out I’m late because we were fucking again she’s gonna be pissed.” If he doesn’t buy the lie, you hope the awkward chuckle you threw in at the end seals the deal.

“You realize I’m your boyfriend, not Stacy, right?” The irritation is evident and you fight the urge to roll your eyes all the way to the back of your head.

“If Stacy and I were dating she’d be my girlfriend, not boyfriend, so…” You can see the look he’s giving you out of the corner of your eye for your unnecessary sass. “I’ll text you.”

A curt goodbye, but you really don’t have the patience to deal with his childish jealousy especially now that you’re having a genuine sexual crisis. Slamming the door without waiting to hear his response, you speed walk down the hallway and take the stairs two at a time. At least now you really are intending to meet up with Stacy.

~ ~ ~

Stacy is like the devil and Charlie the angel on either shoulder and you really should have thought this through before inviting him to your apartment. While it is good to be hearing either side of the argument on whether or not you should text the number given to you so flirtatiously by Professor Pascal, it’s definitely not getting you to a decision any faster. 

“He’s a hot, mature, older man.”

“You literally have a boyfriend.”

“He could satisfy you better than him, I’m sure.”

“If anybody else finds out, he could potentially be fired for fraternizing with a student. Especially a student that he supervises.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she’s the queen of lying. How many times have you faked an orgasm for Garrett?”

“Are you seriously still on that?”

“Okay, stop!” you shout, effectively defusing whatever insult was about to leave Stacy’s mouth, “You guys are pulling my brain in two. This is not helping.”

With a resounding sigh, you fall back on the couch amid plush cushions and fuzzy pillows. Even the strong temptation to fall asleep in a cozy cocoon of softness and warmth and never wake back up doesn’t make you feel better. The two opposing friends give each other a concerned look before piling onto the couch on either side of you and snuggling close.

“Stacy, you’re right. I’m deeply unsatisfied with Garrett and when we were fucking earlier I definitely imagined my professor’s face instead of his. But, Charlie, you’re also right. Ethically, the ramifications could cost us both our reputations and even though I’d feel bad for breaking up with Garrett just because the sex sucks, I’d feel a shit ton worse being reason Pascal gets fired his first year.”

“Maybe you should break up with your shitty boyfriend and just be single for a while,” Charlie states as if he’d just figured the whole thing out.

“If she wanted to be single then we wouldn’t be having this whole conversation, you idiot,” Stacy rebukes with an audible  _ smack  _ to the backside of his head. “The dilemma is this: you don’t like your boyfriend, but you do like your teacher. And I say fucking take what you want.”

Looking out of the window, watching as the last rays of golden light disappear behind the multitude of buildings, you say, “Thanks for the help, guys. For now, I’m gonna go take a relaxing bath and forget about this whole thing.”

~ ~ ~

Purple bubbles fizz all around you as you sink yourself deeper within the scalding water. At least there’s finally a use for the bath bombs you were gifted for Christmas last year, otherwise they would’ve just sat underneath the sink for all of eternity. Baths are a rarity for no other reason than you just don’t take them that often. 

To be honest, you only said you were gonna take one as an excuse to leave the tension between Charlie and Stacy. Then, the more you thought about it the more it sounded like a genuinely good idea. So here you are.

Comfortably naked, soaking in warm, sudsy water, listening to music from a speaker with good bass.  _ Pride and Prejudice,  _ weathered by the many years you’ve owned this particular copy, open in your hands as the cherry on top. Except you’ve reread the same paragraph about three times and your mind still can’t focus on Lizzie consistently roasting Darcy. 

_ Why am I so enamoured with him?  _

What is it about this man you’ve seen a total of two times in person that has your vagina literally throbbing. It’s ridiculous. Even back when you really did like Garrett, he never once made you feel like…  _ this _ . Damn, you suddenly realize how similar your circumstances are to Edna Pontellier. Perhaps all this could be solved by drowning yourself in the sea, it would certainly make things much easier. 

You don’t know this man; to dive headfirst into some sexual relationship with him would be dangerous. He’s at least almost twenty years your senior, that alone would turn off most people, right? He’s got a teaching job at a college, so he must have an established life by now. What if he has a wife? What if he has kids?

But he was at the bar alone as far as you know. And didn’t he say something about taking you up on your offer when you were sober? Didn’t take advantage of you, helped you to the bathroom and stayed until you were finished, even called AND paid for an Uber for you and all your drunk friends. Those kinds of actions can’t come from a man who has his priorities figured out, and by that you mean your intuition tells you he’s a good man who’s shooting his shot. 

Five seconds of staring at your phone laying facedown on the edge of the tub before you toss Jane Austen to the tile and reach for it instead. Luckily for you, you’d saved his number earlier without really knowing what you were doing or why you were doing it. 

Taking a deep, albeit shaky, breath, you select his name from your contacts and slide to call. Not text, no. Call. Deep down you really just want to hear his voice again.

One ring, two rings, three rings, then the click that someone’s answered is heard before, “Hello?”

He could say anything and his voice would still be dripping like sex personified. “Why did you give me your number?”

Good to get things straight before you fall down a hole you won’t be able to get back out of. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you try to keep your head screwed on through this conversation.

“Why’d you call me?” You can hear the smile in his voice as he starts this game, this battle of flirtatious wits. 

“I’m a student, a bit risky, don’t you think?”

“To be fair, I wanted to give it to you that night at the bar.” He must be shuffling because there’s white noise on the other end before it settles again.

“Why didn’t you?” And why is your heart beating so fucking fast?

“You were drunk and I was more concerned with making sure you got home safely. You couldn’t even find the bathroom.” He teases that last part and your face still heats up at the reminder.

“That… was a weak moment. It will never happen again and you will definitely not be around to make fun of me if it does.” There’s something oddly comforting about this new laughter shared between you.

Until he asks, “So if I asked if you wanted to meet up tomorrow at that same place, would you say no?”

Even biting your lip can’t stop the smile from spreading across your face. “No. I mean, no, I wouldn’t say no. I do… want to meet up. With you”  _ Could you talk like a normal person, please? _

“Great.” The giddiness in his voice isn’t lost to you. “Seven work? We could get something to eat and it’ll give you all day to prepare.”

Your brow raises in curiosity. “... prepare for what?”

“All the things I want to do to you.” His voice deepens, laced with lust and your breath hitches at the suggestion of something more than just two adults sharing a drink. But you knew this was coming. You  _ hoped  _ this was coming.

“And what things are those?” As if you’re not already imagining a multitude of scenarios. “Describe them to me…  _ Professor Pascal. _ ”

“I’d take you back to my place, a hand down your pants on the drive there, two fingers teasing you so you’d be wet before we even make it to my apartment.”

The hand previously splayed across your stomach has now moved downwards as you slip in two fingers that you wish were his.

“I’d have you up against the door as soon as it’s closed, knee between your legs and pressing against your cunt as I mark your neck.”

You can see it in your mind as vivid as the day is real. Almost enough that you can imagine how his lips would feel along your collarbone. The thought has you pumping your fingers faster.

“There’d be a trail of clothes to my bedroom where I’d fuck you so good. Just imagine me stretching those walls of yours, moans filling the air. Hands touching you everywhere I can get as your gasps and cries come quicker.”

“Yeah…” That comes out of you breathier than expected, but you want him to know what’s he doing to you right now.

“And then bliss as we come together, sweaty and heaving and tangled together amongst the sheets. Imagine how much better you’d feel than right now as I describe this to you.”

_ Oh, this motherfucker knows how to play this game well.  _ It works well enough because, despite it being your own hand going down on you, you’re coming soon with a soft sigh. You could be louder, you want to be louder just for show, but Stacy’s in the other room.

“I’ll give you a much better orgasm than that, I promise. See you tomorrow.” 

The line cuts before you’re coherent enough to form a response. You wonder if he winked as he said that last line. The thought makes you twitch just the tiniest bit, so you like to think he did. What is this man doing to you? All the right things, apparently.


	3. Part 3

An array of perfectly acceptable clothes hanging in your closet and suddenly you have nothing to wear. What are you supposed to wear? Something casual? Semi-casual? The only thing you’re absolutely confident about is nothing fancy because you’ll be at a bar and it’s not like people show up to those with a fucking floor-length dress. So that leaves you with about ninety-five percent of your wardrobe left to chose from.

“I knew making you take a shower earlier was a good idea,” Stacy admonishes, walking into your bedroom only to see you sat upon the covers with your towel still wrapped around you, “How long have you been sitting there?”

“I don’t know what to fucking wear!” Why is this a harder decision than picking a thesis topic?

“Well, you definitely need either a skirt or a dress.” She walks towards your closet, beginning to sift through the freshly washed clothes. “You know, ‘cause it’s easier for when he fucks you senseless.”

You’re about to yell at her before  _ really  _ thinking about that statement. “Hm… smart.”

“You know you want that good Professor dick.”

“... I don’t like the way you word things sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes with an amused smile, saying, “Here,” as she throws a few pieces of clothing at you.

A black flared high-waisted skirt, a random ‘Prince’ t-shirt that must’ve been cut to a be a crop top at some point, and a pair of ratty converse that has most definitely seen some things.

“It was either heels or those, and based on the two seconds I saw him that first night, I get the feeling he’d appreciate the Chuck T’s more,” Stacy appeases, noticing your confused look at her choice pair of shoes. 

“And the ‘Prince’ shirt?”

“He was wearing a ‘Fleetwood Mac’ one.”

Stacy’s always had this strange ability to have your entire personality down to a pinpoint based on just the first few seconds of meeting you. It’s weird but comes in handy more often than you’d think. 

“Now for the best part.” From the depths of your closet, the part where you shove everything you would never, ever wear but feel obligated to keep anyway, she pulls out a matching black lace bra and panty set. Functional for keeping your girls in place while simultaneously leaving nothing to the imagination. 

“No.” You shake your head fervently, wet, unbrushed hair flying around. “I don’t have the self-confidence for that.”

“Oh, trust me, you will when you’re with him.” She forces it into your arms anyway. “Now go get dressed and I’ll do your hair for you.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“I bet Professor Pascal will be good to you too.”

“Stacy, stop!” you shout, covering your face in embarrassment as you make your way to your bathroom amid her raucous laughter. 

~ ~ ~

The New York streets are packed, as they always are, as you sit in the passenger seat of Stacy’s car, willing yourself to get out. Through the window decorated beautifully with the name of the bar, you can see it’s just as busy as the other night. It’s just a few minutes before seven, what if he’s not there yet? What if he is there and you’re just keeping him waiting?

Honking that’s very clearly directed towards Stacy’s car sitting idle on the side of the street as you work up the nerve derails your train of anxious thoughts. “You look sexy, obviously he’s into you, there’s nothing to worry about. Now get in there and show it off,” Stacy says in an attempt to soothe your worries, throwing the finger to whoever the hell dared to honk at her.

“You’re right. Thanks, Stace.” Opening the car door, you get out and the odd sensation of being surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about you calms you somewhat. “I’ll text you if I need a ride home.”

She smirks, switching from park to drive. “I bet you won’t.”

Watching as she drives off, that bundle of nerves settles itself back in the pit of your stomach. An unhealthy amalgam of the expectations of how tonight will end, your own low self-esteem, and the fact that you actually like this man despite not knowing him well at all, you might just have a panic attack right here and now. 

Suddenly, the familiar beeping of your phone brings you back down to the ground and when you pull it out, reality just kind of slaps the shit out of you as you see Garrett’s name in your notifications. No distractions. No unnecessary worrying. Without reading his text, you put your phone on ‘Do Not Disturb ‘ and head inside the bar. 

The atmosphere is vastly different from the other night, probably because it’s early evening rather than midnight. The music is different too, more of a modern rock than the pop from before. Internally, it comforts you; this scene is more your style. 

Amid the crowd, you hear your name being called from somewhere on your right, and when you turn you find—suddenly, it hits you that you don’t know his first name and you feel incredibly weird referring to him as Professor or Mr. in such a casual setting—already seated at a table for two. 

_ I’m fucked.  _ He looks damn good in just dark-wash jeans and a simple shirt paired this time with a suit jacket. There’s nothing even remotely special about him aside from the fact that he’s here for  _ you,  _ but the sight of him sitting there in the dim lighting, smiling so handsomely has your heart fluttering all the same. 

“You look beautiful as always,” he greets with a compliment, getting up to help pull your chair out like a gentleman, “how’d you know I liked Prince?”

“Lucky guess?”

“Welcome folks, could I start you off with something to drink?” the waiter interrupts, diverting both your attention to him. 

“I’ll have a beer,” Pascal answers

“And for the lady?”

You look towards your date, smirking. “Make that two beers.”

He shakes his head slightly, remembering your first meeting just as you are.

“And whose name will this be under?”

“Pedro, please.”

_ Hm, that fits so perfectly well. _

“Pedro, I like it,” you say once the waiter has gone, picking up your menu to look over your choices. Pedro laughs, and you can see his face turning slightly red, which causes you to internally cheer that you have just as much of an effect on him as he does you. “Say it again.”

“Pedro?”

You feel like melting into a puddle right there in your chair. “I like your accent when you say your name.”

“If you like my accent when I say my name, you should hear me when I speak Spanish.” The confidence with which he says that is not lost on you.

“You speak Spanish?”

“ _ Para una chica bonita como tú puedo hablar cualquier idioma que quieras. _ ”

Is that your new lace underwear getting soaked? “This night’s gonna end very soon if you keep that up. What does it mean?”

Lips curled into a smirk yet still such a charming, dashing look flashing across his coffee-colored eyes. “For a pretty girl like you, I can speak any language you want.”

~ ~ ~

You and Pedro get along so much better than you could’ve ever imagined. Throughout the entire meal, it’s been nothing short of jokes and laughter and finding something surprising in common with him. He’s… different than what you expected. In a good way, of course.

At first, you were infinitely worried that this whole thing was just going to end up being a friends-with-benefits type of thing, a no-strings-attached relationship. With the sexual tension exploding between you since the beginning, it was a genuine concern that, now that you realize it, was part of what was making you so nervous beforehand. 

Not that you still don’t want to end up under him by the end of the night, but it’s… nice to know that something more is possible to happen. If the two of you are willing to take the risk. If the universe doesn’t spontaneously decide to test you in a Romeo and Juliet-esque type of way. 

However, the mood shifts the second the waiter sets the check down on the table of empty plates and drinks. Where are things going to go from here?

“Let me get the check since you called and paid for our Uber last time,” you plead, digging through your bag to find cash in the hopes you can leave with him sooner.

Surprisingly, he holds no qualms against your insistence. “Fair enough, I’ll let you this time.” Your mind catches the suggestion of there being more dates.

The two of you stand, gathering your things to leave, the question of where you’re going to go next stuck on your tongue as you head out under the now blackened sky. But the streets are still wide awake, lit up like the million shining stars you can’t see.

“I know we had a… moment,” Pedro’s starts, clearing his throat as he says the word ‘moment’, “on the phone last night, but I want you to know that you don’t have to come home with me if you don’t want to. I’ll take you back to your place, no objections.”

You feel like if you were in a cartoon there’d be hearts in your eyes right now. He makes men your age seem like literal children with his chivalry. 

“I do want to go home with you.” You say it with certainty, conviction, a way to let him know you’ve made up your mind without the sway of anything other than your own desire. 

Genuinely smiling, he holds out his hand and you take it wholeheartedly, following as he walks you down the street to his car. The night is warm and so are you as you wait in anticipation for what you hope is to come. Is he gonna hold out on his promise? Remembering his words tightens the cord wound up deep in the pit of your stomach.

So far he’s been chivalrous, the perfect gentleman with the subtlest hints of lust behind his actions and words. Or maybe you’re just reading into things because you’re that hot for him. Is it wrong for you to want to push things as fast as they’re going? It’s not as if this date didn’t show you that you two are clearly capable of having more than just a sexual relationship, but, if that’s the case, then should you be taking things slower?

Seeing Pedro’s silhouette outlined by the various street lamps as he drives, arm leaning out of the open window and hair blowing just the slightest in the breeze, you decide that no, things are going at just the right fucking pace.

And you know what? You might just as well taking the fucking initiative too.

Keeping your eyes ahead of you, you move your hand until it’s laying flat against his thigh. Close enough that it leaves no room for doubt. 

“What are you doing there?” Pedro asks, mock suspicion lacing his tone as his eyes dart briefly down. 

Smirking, you slide it so slowly down, making extra care to rake your nails against his jeans as you do. “Experimenting.”

“Hm, interesting wording.” You notice the gulp he takes, adam’s apple bobbing. 

Then you take his bulge in hand, palming as best you can with the angle. His arms tense as the wheel jerks and the car lurches to the side. “Don’t make me crash this car before we get there.”

“I’ll take my chances.” With that, you unzip and unbutton his pants, pull back the band of his briefs, and take his half-hard cock in your hand. He’s girthier than you expected, which only serves to excite you more, much to your chagrin because you have to wait until you get to his place before you get any sort of release. 

“Fuck,” he growls in a whisper, eyes closing before he remembers he’s currently driving and has no control over the situation whatsoever. 

With pressure, you begin pumping your hand up and down, feeling as he slowly grows stiffer with each stroke. You make it a game; at each red light, the second it turns green you pick up the pace. You’re at the fifth light when he finally turns into a complex at an unsafe speed, all but speeding to the parking garage to his spot. 

The second he turns the car off, he grasps your wrist and turns to you with a dangerous look glinting in his eyes. “I’m gonna get you back for that.”

_ Please do, _ you think, watching as he puts himself back in his pants and gestures for you to get out as he does the same. 

His apartment is relatively well-decorated for a man, as biased as that sounds. And quite bookish too. There’s about a million shelves with a million books and then some. Half-open ones lay on every available surface, some old and worn, some new and pristine. The kitchen table is cluttered with paperwork that you assume is university stuff. A laptop sits open, the screen black but the power light flickers on and off to let you know it’s just in hibernation.

You’ve only just shut and locked the door behind him before he slams you against it with a bruising kiss. His tongue is warm in your mouth and you moan with the double sensation of his hands sliding up along your thighs under your skirt. It’s as if his fingers leave literal tracks in your skin in their wake. 

“You looked so fucking gorgeous tonight,” he says against your lips, hands gripping your panties and yanking them down.  _ There goes Stacy’s idea. _ “And then you fucking touched me like that, knowing I couldn’t do anything back.” He’s kneeling down, lips and teeth catching on any scrap of bare skin before he’s on the floor completely.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp, breath leaving you once his fingers push their way past your folds. 

“I’ll give you what you deserve,” he states, lust dripping from his words, staring into your eyes with hood lids, “and more.”

You thought his fingers felt good? His tongue feels even fucking better. Licking and swiping without conviction, aggressive right from the start, he’s relentless. You’ve never come so fast before, except you don’t come. Right as you feel the tension boil over, he stops. Pulls away with that stupid fucking smirk and mischief all over his face.

“I said what you deserve, not what you need,” is his only answer. 

Then he kisses you again, sweeter and softer this time so you can taste yourself. And with a slight tap to your thighs in indication, you’re in his arms with your legs wrapped around his waist as he walks you to his bedroom. 

He throws you onto his bed of a large, soft comforter and an abundance of pillows, and you’re struck with the power imbalance as he towers over you, face flushed even in the darkness and hair deliciously tousled. 

“Strip,” he commands huskily, removing his jacket as he does so.

Your compliance is automatic as you pull your shirt over your head in hastiness, but you’ve only got your skirt halfway down when you stop, mesmerized by his bare torso. He’s not jacked or anything, but the fact that this man you’ve been pining for is just a few inches short of your grasp, chest bare for you to touch as much as you want sets your heart aflame. 

Is this what sex is supposed to feel like? The yearning to touch and stare to your heart’s content? The knowledge that your partner is as for your pleasure as they are for their own? That fact that you can just tell by the way they look at you that you’re everything they’ve ever wanted and then some? This revelation of new feelings, so powerful and passionate, come tumbling from your brain to your heart, causing your lungs to quit working altogether. 

“Are you okay?” Pedro asks, his demeanor instantly changed as he notices the sudden, involuntary rigidness of your body.

“I’ve just never been more ready for anything in my whole life.”

You wonder if you’ll ever see a sight more adorable than his smile lighting up his face. 

With new vigor igniting his bones at your statement, he shoves his pants and briefs down before climbing atop you and crushing you whole. But it’s a good feeling, his body over yours as close as can be. The heat radiating between you, the stickiness of your bodies catching together. Nothing feels more right than this.

“You better fuck me good and hard, Professor Pascal,” you say with a smirk, loving the way his muscles tense because you know the title turns him on coming from you,

Quickly, he pulls a condom from the drawer of his nightstand and as soon as he has it on, he’s pushing into you hard and fast. You don’t even have time to fucking breathe, let alone get used to his length as he sets the rhythm to knocking his headboard against the wall. Which is just fine with you.

Aside from his dick thrusting in and out of you, what turns you on more is his grunts falling straight into your ear. A man who isn’t embarrassed about his volume? You really hit the motherfucking jackpot here. Nothing turns you on more than your partner voicing his pleasure with incoherent sounds.

You want to say something, to tease him again, but each time the words falter, turning into gasps and moans instead once they reach the seal of your lips. So you embrace the inability, scratching your nails down his back and locking your ankles around his waist. You want him impossibly closer. 

He groans against your collarbone at the sensation of fire red trailing down his spine. And it simultaneously snaps him in half so he’s climaxing with a stuttering stop, a breathy, “fuck,” imprinted into your neck straight from his mouth.

It’s like he’d grab your hand so you could release together because at the sensation of it all you’re grunting out a, “holy shit,” as you come around him still flaccid inside of you. 

Heavy silence. But the kind of heavy like a weighted blanket thrown over your sweaty bodies still entwined and heaving together. Who knows what’s going to happen after this? You don’t care as long as you wake up still trapped in his comforting embrace. It’s the one thing you’ve known for certain in a long time.


	4. Part 4

Warm. Comfortable. Unbelievably content to lay where you are right now forever. Cocooned in soft blankets and plush pillows, your naked body has never felt more perfectly balanced. And the sweet peppering of kisses all over your bare back is the frosting on this immaculate cake. 

Sighing and stretching like a cat sunbathing, your eyes flutter open to see Pedro’s face in your peripheral. As far as you can tell, the only light comes from the small lamp he has sitting on his end table. Picking your head up, you can tell it’s early in the morning with the sun barely above the buildings behind the closed curtain. And also a dog fast asleep next to you.

“You look so precious dozing there, I hate to wake you,” Pedro whispers, sitting down beside you with his hand rubbing softly along your spine. 

You hum in contentment despite still feeling a bit groggy. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“Yeah, his name’s Edgar.” The gentle smiling pulling at his mouth as he gazes at Edgar warms your heart

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.” He leans down to plant a kiss to your lips and for a moment it all feels so oddly domestic. “I have to get to work, but I can take you home on the way there.”

“Am I gonna make you late?” you ask, residual worries about being the reason he loses his job surfacing.

But he only brushes your mussed hair out of your face and pulls the blanket up over the gooseflesh spreading over your shoulders. “Baby, if my students can be late and not give a shit, then I can be late and not give a shit.”

You almost genuinely purr at the pet name. Instead, you grasp his cheeks and pull his lips to yours once again. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be mildly presentable.” It’s then that you remember your lace panties were thrown somewhere in his living room. 

He smiles adorably. “I gathered your clothes and put them in a pile in my bathroom. How do you take your coffee?” 

_ This man is husband material. Yeah, I’m already thinking about it, what are you gonna do inner me?  _ “Lots of sugar and lots of milk.”

“On it.” With that, he’s moving away from you and you pout at the loss of warmth and stability. But then you notice his choice of outfit for the day and suddenly you have more intrusive thoughts flooding your mind. 

It’s another bookish, smart-looking suit, but paired this time with a turtle neck that is  _ really  _ doing things you never would’ve thought a turtle neck could do to you. Your eyes hungrily follow his retreating form out the door as he leaves it ajar behind him. 

_ Getting a fucking grip,  _ you think, standing and padding towards the bathroom. 

Once you’ve got your clothes back on (save for the underwear because those were kind of destroyed), you make your way out into his kitchen which is as smartly decorated as the brief view of the foyer you’d gotten the night before. A bit minimalist with clear indications of a man operating the utilities (ie. the sink full of dirty dishes and you manage to walk in just as Pedro pulls a clean mug straight from the dishwasher), it’s still… homey. 

He turns at the sound of your sneakers scuffing against the wood floor and you almost pass out right there because square, black-framed glasses now sit on his face. Stunning? Perfection? You’re balking for adjectives to describe this new revelation.

“You wear glasses?” you ask lamely, badly attempting to keep your nonchalance.

If he notices, he doesn’t tease you this time. “Eyesight gets worse with age, you know. I didn’t wear them the first day and then abruptly realized my horrible mistake.”

He hands you the steaming mug of coffee as dark as his eyes, gesturing towards the milk and sugar out on the counter for your convenience. 

You’re stirring the unhealthy mixture of both into your drink as Pedro starts, “So, last was night was-”

“The best night of my fucking life?” you interrupt, turning around with a bemused expression, “You really know how to take care of a girl, Pascal.” You take a hefty sip of the hot liquid to quench whatever is bubbling up inside of you. 

He chuckles, startled by your rather blunt statement, cheeks beginning to burn red. “I was referring to the date actually, not the sex, but thank you.”

“Oh… “ Now it’s your turn to blush. “The date was good too.”

“I wanna take you out on another one.”

“Already? I haven’t even left your place yet.” Suddenly shy, you hide behind your mug as you take another tentative sip. It’s not as if you don’t want to. Because you do. But you’re just so unused to someone you’re infatuated with being so infatuated with you that you’re having an increasingly difficult time keeping your composure.

He takes a step closer to you and you inhale his scent like it’s a love potion. “I know, but tell me you didn’t feel the connection we shared last night. Out of the bedroom  _ and  _ in the bedroom.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Pedro,” you agree to the unspoken question of the date. And you’re being as truthful as you’ve been in a long time.

Checking the time on his phone, his eyes widen as he says, “Well, right now we’re gonna go to your apartment or else I’m gonna be too late to work.”

You sit with your head against the glass of the window as Fleetwood Mac drifts from the radio of his car. Watching the world blur by in a myriad of splashing colors mixed with grey, there’s an odd thought of how everyone out there has no idea of what’s happening to you currently. No care. If you manage to keep this a secret for as long as you can, things could be so good for you. You smile imagining all of what’s yet to come.

~ ~ ~

Inside your empty apartment, you lean back against the closed door with a giddy smile breaking out across your face. The fluttering inside your chest is almost the same as when you’d had your first kiss back in middle school. Well, you’ve come a  _ long  _ way since then in terms of sex and romance, and while nothing you’ve done so far with Pedro is new to you, he’s damn well making it feel like it is. 

After taking a shower and feeling far more refreshed than before, you sit on your bed with the towel still around you to finally check your phone. The second you take Do Not Disturb off, a million notifications pop up causing it to buzz annoyingly for a solid minute. Your mood instantly drops when you see about half of those notifications are messages from Garrett. Part out of anger because the longer you went without responding, the more furious his texts became and part out of guilt because, at this point, you’ve outwardly cheated on your boyfriend.

Regardless of whether you were happy or not in the relationship, you hadn’t made the morally better choice to break up with him before you’d agreed to a date with Pedro. Who is your college professor, but somehow that seems far less of a problem until you deal with Garrett. 

Reluctantly, because all you wish you could do is mentally shove his entire existence under the bed in your brain, you text him a measly apology, explaining with yet another lie that you’d been busy with Stacy. If he happens to go so far as to check your only source, you’re confident your best friend can handle going along with your lie to someone she’s hated since meeting him. 

Now that you’re thinking about it, maybe that should’ve been your first sign. Not that you’re claiming you should go along with everything your best friend says, but sometimes they really do know best. And you’re lucky Stacy’s blunt enough to tell you straight up. 

Enough of that depressing shit. Time to pick out a sexy outfit for your hot professor.

~ ~ ~

Or not. You really tried to walk out the door in some tight jeans that hugged your ass and a shirt that showed off just the right about of cleavage, but then you got about two steps and audibly announced, “Nope!” before turning back around to change into more sweats. Look, college is already kicking your ass three days in and as much as you’d love to claim this weird, new sexual awakening you’re having is changing your cynical views of the world, it’s not. 

You’re really glad with your decision on comfortability versus pretty (let’s talk about how the two are virtually mutually exclusive; that should be considered a crime) because walking into class only to see Pedro with his back to you, stretched up to write something on the chalkboard (he’s old-fashioned like that, you’ve discovered, and this among other weird quirks are things you’re beginning to truly like about him), jacket riding up just enough to show off his perfectly-sculpted ass in those suit pants has you instantly drenched. 

Smiling and shaking your head to yourself at your ridiculousness, you wordlessly walk up to your seat where Charlie surprisingly sits. 

“I thought you were dropping this class?” you question, pulling out your items and settling yourself for the lesson.

He rolls his eyes before replying, “I’ll admit, sometimes I’m a bit dramatic.” He gives you a look when you snort at the part where he says ‘bit’. “Any updates between you and Mr. Hottie?”

“We went on a date and then we fucked.” Could you have worded that better? Sure, but beating around the bush doesn’t work with Charlie.

And just like you knew he would, he becomes incredulous, shock and disappointment all over his face. “What about Garrett?”

“I’ve decided I’m gonna break up with him…”

“But you haven’t already? You just went out with a guy while dating another guy? That’s really shitty of you.” He sings the last part, a telltale sign that he doesn’t want to argue with you, so he’s opted to be petty instead.

“It’s only shitty if he finds out. What are you gonna do? Tell him?” But you aren’t having any of it, so you stare straight at him with your accusations, wondering if he’s going to take the bait.

He does. His shoulders deflate as he looks away, unable to keep your gaze. “I just want you to be smart about this.”

“I am!”  _ Well…  _

The two of you don’t speak again for the rest of the class. A class in which you find it increasingly difficult to focus on with all the shit currently piled onto your plate. Between a warring Stacy and Charlie, wondering how the fuck you’re going to deal with Garrett, and your own fatal attraction to your professor that sends a literal shock to your vagina every time he makes a single fucking glance your way. 

The second class is dismissed, Charlie awkwardly piles his shit into his bag and heads out the door without a word. You watch his retreating form with pursed lips, total parts regret essentially putting a crown on your head. 

Somehow you are once again the last one out of the room, except this time you’re not embarrassed, just really fucking slow at putting your shit away apparently. Okay, that’s a lie. You really just wanted a moment alone with Pedro, so you took your sweet damn time.

You stand, seeing Pedro’s simple nod towards his office as he begins making his way over, and follow. Inside is mostly boxes, shelves, and file cabinets; typical teacher stuff and the like. Clearly, he’s taken his sweet damn time unpacking a space you wonder if he’s ever actually used. But there is a big, mahogany desk resting smack dab in the middle of the room covered with various papers, folder, and files

“Everything alright with you friend?” Pedro asks when you step in. He’s leaning against the desk, all languid and lazy, arms and ankles crossed.

Setting your bag down on the floor, you respond airly, “Yeah… just stupid arguments, you know?”

Like a lightbulb flickering to life, a thought makes its way to the forefront of your mind, exciting you more than you would’ve thought. Shutting the door, the bang it makes resounding and definitive, you step towards him. 

His eyebrow raises at your sudden change in posture and mood, the air seemingly now charged with an electricity he wasn’t prepared for but is pliant and willing regardless. 

Zero hesitation in your actions, you grasp the lapels of his suit jacket and bring him down for a deep kiss full of tongue. “Go sit down in your chair for me, will you?” you whisper into his mouth, warm breath fanning across his trembling lip. 

You move back an inch to allow his compliance, following as he walks around the desk and sits with anticipation as a wordless question in the air. But does voice his curiosity when you kneel to the floor. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer until you’ve undone his pants and pulled his half-hard cock from the confines. Then you look up through your eyelashes, mock innocence playing at your lips. “Just being a good student for you, professor.”

He doesn’t expect the warm stripe you lick from base to tip and he jolts in his chair, a soft “Shit” falling from his lips. Precum begins seeping out, so you wipe that as delicately as you can with your thumb, spreading it over the head before popping the digit into your mouth, licking it clean as you keep your eyes locked with his. Bitter and salty, you only do it for clout and to test just what kinds of things make this man you have at your entire disposal fall apart. 

_ Knock knock knock.  _ “Mr. Pascal, are you free to talk a minute?” 

_ Shit.  _ You stare at each other with wide eyes, stunned for just a moment about what to do before Pedro ushers you underneath his desk, effectively trapping you as he rolls his chair into the space just as the door swings open. 

You’re not paying attention to whoever the hell just interrupted you because Pedro’s dick, now fully hard and straining, is now fully front and center for your mouth to just… You smirk before sliding your mouth as far down as you can without audibly gagging and giving away your precarious position, one hand grasping what little is left. 

You would be a tease and go slow to edge him until he’s a sobbing mess beneath your instruction, but it seems the opposite makes the better play here. You start a brutal pace, bobbing up and down and praying they can’t hear the obscene sounds of your hollowed cheeks and lips as your saliva turns into lube. 

There’s a sudden bang from the top of the desk, which must be Pedro’s fist pounding against it because you can feel his thigh tensing under your touch the longer you keep it up. Your lips are becoming raw, but still, you keep the rhythm, knowing he won’t dare blow his load because, after last night, you know he can’t keep quiet. 

You think you hear the door close, but it doesn’t matter because Pedro’s very suddenly and very aggressively rolling away and pulling you up and out by your wrists. “You’re fucking funny, really fucking funny,” he says, face flushed and eyes wild, “You don’t seem like such a good student to me.” He brings a hand to your chin, everything but gentle. “I think I should punish you.”

All you can do underneath his intense stare is mumble a dazed, “Yeah…”

“Oh, you want to get punished? You’d like that, huh?” 

Turning you around, he pushes you face-first against the top of his desk, all the files and papers scratching painfully against your skin. He pulls down your sweats and underwear with ease and you’re eternally grateful for your inherent laziness. Then he lands a hard, loud, painful  _ smack  _ to your ass, and you cry out in both pain and pleasure.

“Look at you.” A knuckle barely swiping against your cunt, teasing you with just the tiniest bit of friction. “All swollen and wet for me, waiting for me to fuck you senseless.” Another smack.

Then he pushes into you in one, unrestrained, swift move. And stops. “If you want it so badly, then maybe I shouldn’t…” 

He begins pulling out before you protest, “No! Please, Pedro, I-”

“What’s my name?”

“Professor, please…”

“That’s a good girl.” He pushes back in as before, allowing himself just the smallest of grunt at the clenching of you around him. A hand grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling just enough to strain your neck so perfectly. “Now what do you want?”

Amid all the sensations and want rushing through you, you can’t help how desperate your voice sounds as you plead, “Fuck me, professor, please!”

He pulls out so fucking slowly before slamming back into you causing a few folders to go flying off of the desk. Relentless and fulfilling, the room fills with the lewd sounds of moans, gasps, and skin slapping against skin. Pedro’s unbridled grunts only succeed in pushing you to the edge faster than you originally wanted. 

The feeling of you coming around him, hard and so unexpectedly—he barely has the sense to pull out before releasing all over your back. Heavy breathing now fills the air instead as the two of you come down from this game-changing high. You lay slumped over his desk, limbs akin to jelly and body euphoric like how you felt that one time you tried LSD. Like you could do everything in the world all at once.

“Sorry,” Pedro apologizes once he regains his composure and gathers himself. You assume he’s referring to the semen currently running down your back where your shirt had ridden up. 

“Don’t be,” you say, hoping to convey it’s literally the last thing occupying your mind. 

~ ~ ~

It’s hard for you to be angry at Garrett for being angry at you. In the end, it’s your fault for not saying anything. You want to blame it on falling out of love with him, but ever since Pedro and… whatever your heart is beginning to feel for him, you’re not sure you ever did to begin with. 

The logic part of you rarely ever wins, so you can’t help but find your eyebrow twitching with bristling exasperation as your soon-to-be-ex boyfriend practically chides you for your childish behavior of late. You have been a child. Ignoring his calls and texts, deflecting his concerns, pushing everything to the back of your mind. 

It’s time to put on your fucking big girl pants and make an executive decision about your love life.

“I’m breaking up with you.” There. It’s out.

Any other insults and accusations he was about to throw your way suddenly fizzle out at your statement. He only stands there, disbelief written out across his face, before he musters a choked, “Why?”

_ Uh…  _ “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

And just like that, the indignation is back. “That’s some feminist bullshit if I ever heard it. At the very least I deserve some kind of explanation.”

Standing, you head for his door one last time, turning around to say, “Goodbye, Garrett.” 

You out the door feeling oddly satisfied, so long as you don’t think about everything you didn’t and should have told him.

~ ~ ~

‘Stacy’s Mom’ plays from your speakers as you lie in bed contemplating life. You’re splayed out like a starfish amongst the pillows and blankets, eyes closed and just vibing.

“Please stop playing this song,” Stacy attempts to cajole with a plate of freshly-baked brownies in hand as she walks into your bedroom.

Smelling the goods, you rise from the bed with a jeering, “Your mom is kinda hot.”

All she does is make a face, cringing while you laugh at her expense.

The two of you sit together, pigging out on the brownies as you talk; something you haven’t done in a while. You make a mental note to plan a girl’s night with her, despite literally living with her, but you guys are hardly ever at the house at the same time. 

She’s in the middle of explaining her latest one night stand with some girl when the music is interrupted by the ringing of your phone. 

“Who the fuck calls anymore?” She questions, sculpted eyebrows raised.

“Pedro does.” You shake your head at her when she  _ ooooo’s. _

“Hello?” You greet, smiling.

“Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Great, I’m on my way.”

The call ends, leaving you wondering what the hell this man has planned.

“So, what’d he want?” Stacy asks, as invested as she is in all of her teen dramas.

“All he did was ask if I was free and then told me he was on his way.”

“Late night rendezvous, hell yeah!”

Apparently so.


	5. Part 5

Fifteen minutes after that spontaneous phone call, Pedro pulls up outside of your apartment building with a text that reads a simple ‘I’m here’. You’re desperately hoping this isn’t about to be some fancy date because, based on the urgency of his voice, you opted for basic sweats (as per usual) and an old Star Wars t-shirt that was your father’s from the eighties. 

Stacy, relaxing on the window seat that overlooks the street and noticing the car that’s parked on the side, jokes, “Don’t have too much fun.” She has a glass of wine in one hand and the bottle in the other and you’re unsurprised the latter is emptier. 

“And what will you be doing?” you ask as you double-check your keys, phone, and some cash are in the pockets of your pants.

She raises the glass high in the air for a mocking cheer before downing the rest in one gulp. “Chilling. Vibing. Being simultaneously happy for and jealous of you.” A short laugh follows at your pointed look. “Go be with your man and have a night only most girls dream of.”

Giddy with anticipation, you leave with a flurry of goodbyes as you fly down the stairs and out the door to Pedro waiting in the car. He notices you through the window and a huge smile breaks out across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners and that one dimple in his right cheek now prominent. 

“Is there a reason you needed to see me at nine on a Wednesday night when we both have shit in the early morning?” you ask as you strap into the passenger seat.

New York is still buzzing with activity—the city that never sleeps. Although contrary to popular belief, the streets do drastically quiet down once it gets past midnight. Not when you’re downtown, of course, where the ads and neon signs and twenty-four-hour stores are packed. Maybe that’s where you’re going. Maybe not. You suppose it doesn’t matter much when you’re with Pedro because his arms are the only place you care to be.  _ What a fucking sap you are,  _ you think.

Pedro puts the car in drive and speeds down the street as if he’s running out of time to get to his destination. “Nope. None at all. I made a rash decision because I just really wanted to see you and now I have to come up with a plan of where to go.”

Something blossoms inside of you now that you know you basically make Pedro feel like he’s in high school again. “We could just drive around and talk.”

“If only I didn’t despise driving so much.”

“Why are you always picking me up and dropping me off, then? I do have a license and a car myself, you know.” You giggle, leaning over to turn the radio on to a low volume for some background noise. 

“Am I not allowed to be a gentleman?” he jokes, hand beginning to tap to the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know, the feminist in me is getting antsy.” That gets a hearty laugh to fall from his perfect lips and the sound sends goosebumps along your arms like that of a really good song. 

Streetlights blur on by as you glide down the street, window down and hair blowing in the wind. The night is unusually warm and you stick a hand out to feel the cool breeze, letting the air glide smooth and steadily along your fingertips. The last time you’d had a night like this, problems nonexistent and decisions alluringly impulsive, was in high school when you’d been cockily sure you’d had your entire world figured out.

Pedro pulls the car down a winding, scenic road lined by trees, a harsh but welcoming contrast to the typical brick townhomes. He pulls haphazardly into a parking space, uncaring for whether he’s in the faded lines or not (he’s not, he’s quite perfectly in between two spaces). 

“I sincerely hope I haven’t made the fatal mistake of being charmed by a serial killer,” you joke as he leads you through the tree line. You suppose you should be scared, but the dumb bitch part of your brain is reveling the excited anticipation for where he’s taking you.

“I do read quite a lot of books about death, so I’m confident in my ability to hide your body if I was one.” He turns around to smile to show you he’s joking, to which you give him a face that he chuckles at. “Kidding, of course.”

“I’m sure.”

You are, however, very confused as he drags you through dirt and grass and— _ oh, wow, those are pretty flowers _ —until you finally come upon a small pond surrounded by a concrete path and dotted with various benches.

“This is where I take Edgar for walks. Thought it’d be a nice place to talk and, I don’t know, relax I guess.”

It is a nice place; the water sparkles under the moonlight and ripples with the slight, warm breeze. Patches of tulips and daffodils surround the area and a few magnolia trees sit in a cluster on one edge like a nature-grown gazebo. You let him lead you to a bench, automatically leaning into his side when you sit down.

“Oh, so you’re taking your girlfriend on walks now, too?” Your heart stops at your slip-up. It just came out of your mouth, you honestly didn’t mean to say it aloud. This wasn’t a conversation you were ready to have yet, but you guess your dumb ass couldn’t wait. “I’m sorry, I genuinely didn’t mean to assume-”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

“I-what?”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” he repeats, keeping his face level with yours so you can’t look away as much as you wish you could and just disappear under metaphorical covers.

“...kinda.” You’re sheepish in your answer, but it is the truth. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made the slip in the first place. Are you, perchance, going into this way too fast? Possibly. Do you care at this point? Not a damn bit.

“Rad, I wanna be your boyfriend.” He leans in to kiss you and it’s as if this kiss solidifies your entire relationship status.

“Rad,” you agree, effectively breaking the kiss as you start giggling at his choice of words.

The two of you sit and talk about life, your childhoods, your aspirations and the like. Pedro’s life has been far more interesting than yours, so you deflect his questions about your boring one in favor of making him talk more about his. After a while, you begin that same wishful thinking that’s always gotten you in trouble—maybe Pedro could take you to visit his family in Chile one day? You forcefully push those thoughts to the back of your mind.

Aside from your deep conversation, there has been one thing nagging you for the last five minutes or so. Pedro notices you repeated glances towards the pond, but it’s not like you’d been trying to be subtle. Only… politely shy. “Why do you keep looking at the pond?”

“I’m feeling a very strong temptation to go skinny dipping?”

He nods, pursing his lips and humming. Then he stands. “I used to be a competitive swimmer as a child. Almost went to nationals.” Then he takes off his hoodie along with his shirt and that beautiful pudge of his stomach is just within your reach. Before he’s sprinting off towards the water. “Last one in is a sore loser!”

Your mouth drops open when you get a tiny peek of his ass as he shucks his shorts and then you’re struggling to be rid of your own clothes as fast as possible. There’s a loud splash just as you toss your bra behind you and follow suit. 

The water is refreshingly cold and you’re sure the adrenaline is keeping the shock at bay. Breaking the surface and rubbing your eyes, you find yourself across from Pedro as he floats with only his eyes visible. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and you splash water at him in response. 

You float above the water separately and in peaceful silence, simply listening to the faint echo of cars and the louder more immediate chirping of crickets. Serenity at its finest and you couldn’t be more relaxed and aroused at the exact same time. 

Your opens pop open when you feel Pedro’s hand sliding along your inner thigh, so you close them tightly and trap his hand in between. “What are you doing?” you ask in suspicion, eyes narrowing.

His innocent smile couldn’t be faker. “Hoping for a little treat.”  _ Oh my… _

“Fuck you and the way you word things.” 

With a hand to the back of his head, you pull his mouth down to yours and delve into everything that is him and his tongue. Your thighs release his hand, allowing him to continue his path up past the stretch marks and through your folds, stretching you so fucking perfectly. His assault is slow and languid, just lazy motions of his fingers curling and uncurling inside of you. You bite into his shoulder when his thumb begins circling your clit and you feel the last shred of sanity fall to pieces as your orgasm spreads through you like a low, simmering heat.

Fingers underneath your chin, he tilts your head back up to place another, lighter kiss to your lips. “I need you like my lungs need air to breathe,” he whispers, the warmth ghosting over your face.

Heat rushes up your neck and across your cheeks, but you keep your eyes connected with his. “Poetic, but are we really about to have sex in dirty pond water?”

“You’re right. C’mon, I’ve got condoms in my car.”

It’s as you’re getting out, generously helped by Pedro’s hand pulling you up the rest of the steep edge, that you suddenly realize something. “How are we supposed to dry off? I don’t want to put my clothes on wet.”

He takes a minute, as if the realization is just as sudden to him because the spontaneity has now effectively backfired. “Um… I’ll put my shorts on and you can have my hoodie and we’ll just make a mad dash in the hopes no one sees us essentially streaking in the park.” A small, awkward smile graces his face, it’s the best he can offer unless you want to go full nude.

You take the hoodie out of his outstretched hand, grumbling, “We better fucking run fast then.”

As much as you despise sprinting through grass and trees with bare feet, hands pinned to your sides so the hoodie doesn’t fly up and reveal your vagina to the world and any nighttime runners, it is, admittedly, kind of exhilarating in that guilty pleasure kind of way. Although, you are wholly relieved to find the car in view without any mishaps. 

“Just throw your shit in the front, we’re fucking in the back!” Pedro shouts as he pulls out his keys and unlocks the doors. 

You do as told, climbing in the backseat and carelessly tossing the rest of your clothes into the front seat, hastily pulling off Pedro’s hoodie as if you’re running out of time. Next to you, Pedro’s doing the exact same thing, struggling to pull off his shorts in the cramped space, and you giggle at watching his attempt. Finally, he gets them off, but not without banging his knees against the plastic back and a soft ‘ow’.

Just like magnets, you’re connected together once more, the attraction constant. Soaking wet, bodies heated and water dripping from the ends of your hair, the two of you makeout like you’re unruly teenagers discovering sex for the first time. 

“Glove box,” he says, although it turns into a moan as you grind against him.

“What?”

“The condoms. Glove box.”

_ Oh, right. Definitely don’t want kids right now.  _ Reaching back as far as your unathletic and inflexible body will allow while still situated on Pedro’s lap, you fumble around in the compartment blindly before grasping a loose package. Two seconds flat, you’ve ripped it open, put it on him, and slid down with a low moan at the fit. 

It makes you happy to know your body is already accommodating him. The stretch isn’t so painful, the feel is familiar, and Pedro’s involitale coos of encouragement make you love this sex so much more than any you’ve ever had before. Less of the sensual lovemaking from the first time and less of the kinky romp in his office earlier that day, this is more a frenzy fuck, a ‘I’m really horny right now and so are you’ kind of fuck. 

Your pace is off-tempo, no rhythm of any kind. Firstly because sex in such a cramped space with weird angles because it feels weird to have your feet just dangling off the edge of the seat is very awkward and it takes you a couple of tries to find something semi-comfortable. But when you do, you take it readily along with the suffering of making your legs ache terribly later. 

Part of you would have been embarrassed about coming so soon, but she’s dead. Along with any sense of practicality or pragmatism you previously had. Pure adrenaline is still rushing through you like the buzz that first time you ever get drunk. Hearing Pedro’s soft groan as he releases into the condom is the only thing that steadies you. 

Breathless. Heated. Embracing your  _ boyfriend  _ with a solidifying hug, things infinitely more intimate as your bare chests, sticky with sweat and pond water, press together. A huff of a laugh is released when you notice the windows of the car fogged up. How Titanic of you. 

“What are you doing?” Pedro’s sliding his hand along the fog, letting it trail down before bringing to wrap back around you.

“Reenacting that Titanic scene.”

“Right,” you laugh at his dorkiness and that fact that you had just made the same reference a split second before, “Where to next? Surely your only plan wasn’t to just take me on a walk like Edgar? Granted, we did do a few more things than originally thought.”

As he sits up to adjust himself, the twitching of his dick inside you makes you wince, so you climb off of him as carefully as you can and opt for sitting across from him, feet in his lap.

“There’s a fiesta going on somewhere near the campus and I thought it’d be something fun. Hope you like dancing.”

“I love dancing.”

~ ~ ~   
  


Colorful streamers interspersed with bulbous lights, blaring music drifting around the block, and an entire dance floor where couples spin and swing together in a myriad of Mexican culture. Pedro’s not Mexican, but he is Hispanic and the sight of it all brings the brightest, cutest smile to his face. You’re not sure what the celebration is for—maybe just for the hell of it, but you’re excited and giddy nonetheless.

Keeping his hand entwined with yours, he leads you through the throng of animated people and to the space separated by a large, black board. The music is pounding in your ears, but the second you’ve stepped into another world, it changes to a slower, more sensual song. Perfect for falling into Pedro’s arms, head resting against his chest and following his steady lead.

Is it weird to claim you’ve felt different this night than any other night? Aside from the fact you’re doing shit you used to do in high school, obviously, but these feelings and emotions? They’re so much stronger than you’d originally planned for them to be. To be honest, part of you didn’t plan for them to exist at all. 

But standing here, swaying in his arms and listening to his heart that now belongs to you, you’ve never felt more grounded in your life. Shaking you head of such fantasy and deep thoughts, you let yourself sink into the now. Live life in the present and enjoy each moment in its fullness.

~ ~ ~

Back home, life feels as if you were on pause the whole time and now you’re reluctantly reaching for the play button. Touching your lips, you can still feel the lingering of the goodbye kiss(es) you’d shared before you finally willed yourself to pull away. Things are so great and you couldn’t be more content.

Until Stacy’s in your face, front and center with an uncharacteristically worried look across her face. “Not to ruin your perfect night, by Garrett just texted me asking why you were fucking your professor.”

_ Son of a bitch _ .


	6. Part 6

First, there was fear. Now there’s only seething anger boiling over everything and blazing your eyes red. You shouldn’t have told anything. You should’ve just kept things to yourself. Better yet, maybe you should’ve just ignored Pedro’s flirting. Or maybe you should’ve broken up with Garrett a long time ago. There’s too many should have’s and it’s making your head hurt.

“How the fuck did Garret find out?” you shout, hands tangling themselves in your hair in distress, “I only told you and… Charlie.”

You lock eyes with Stacy, the realization shooting through you like a bullet. “He wouldn’t, would he?” she questions, crossing her arms.

“Well, you didn’t snitch, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then that fucker must have!” You begin pacing back and forth, thoughts and guilt and what if’s running through your mind. “He never wanted me to start this thing with Pedro in the first place and we argued about it this morning before class. Garrett was probably snooping, wondering why I broke up with him so suddenly and asked him.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she asks it cautiously, wary of your frenzied nature.

You stop pacing, reaching into the pocket of your sweats and pulling out your phone. “I’m gonna find Charlie and ask him what the fuck he was thinking.”

The man loves partying so much you’ve jokingly called it his one hamartia. Therefore, all you need do is search through your snap stories and find out which one he’s currently at. The fact that it’s literally the third day since class has started has absolutely no bearing on when students feel like inviting a bunch of random fucking people they barely know over to their house to get blackout drunk and snort crack off the porch railings. 

“Aha!” you exclaim, turning the screen towards your best friend, “The apartments down the street from Scholar’s Hill. You coming with?”

“And witness you punching the fuck out of him? Hell yeah!”

It’s honestly a miracle that you weren’t pulled over on your way there, you were speeding so goddamn fast out of pure rage. Your foot felt like lead as it pressed on the accelerate, swerving around corners and speeding through yellow lights just as they turn red. Things were going so well. You were so happy for the first time in a long time. Three days of legitimate bliss and now it’s all come crashing down like some stupid teen novel you would’ve read in middle school. Why the fuck does life always have to get in the fucking way of things? All of these thoughts and more bring tears to your eyes, but as you brake, the tires screeching on the pavement, you will them away.

Horrid pop music blasts from the complex, the lyrics muffled but the bass booming all the way down the block. People are milling about on the open walkway, the stench of weed permeating the air the second you step through the gate. Your eyes flicker between each group, trying to find Charlie through the crowd. You’ll probably hear him before you see him.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” The shouting comes from within one open door and you can discern Charlie’s voice from the rest (because each ‘chug’ is followed by his own ‘bitch’).

“Charlie, I need to fucking talk to you!” you yell, shoving through the throng of partygoers until you reach his inebriated person. 

His dreads are pulled back by a band and his eyes are completely bloodshot, but they open wide once he finally notices you. “Oh, hey, girl! Whatchu doin’ here?”

“Why-” The realization that you don’t exactly want to have a screaming match with Charlie (because that will inevitably happen) in a room full of people about the very thing you didn’t want anyone to know about. So, instead, you grab his bicep and lead him outside, down some steps on which he stumbles pathetically, and down around the back where the empty pool is. “Why the fuck would you tell Garrett about Pedro?” Regardless, you still whisper yell.

“Who the fuck is-” You watch the lightbulb flicker to life. “Pedro? You’re on a first-name basis now?”

“You had no right! I told you I wanted this kept secret! I trusted you!” 

He stumbles forwards, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “And I told you not to get involved in the first place! I warned you something bad was gonna happen.”

“You were the bad thing that happened because you snitched! I don’t even know why I tell you shit, you just blab it to everyone who’ll listen! Things were going so good until you!” You can’t help the tears of frustration that fall from your eyes, smearing down your angry, red cheeks. 

“I was just trying to look out for you,” he scoffs, acting as if he’s the victim.

“All you did was fuck everything up. Even if something bad did happen, you should’ve just left well-enough alone. You had no fucking right to meddle in my life.”

“So what are you gonna do, then? Be angry with me?” He sits down on the edge of the pool, legs dangling and swaying as the two of you hadn’t just been fighting. 

“Well, first, I’m gonna ditch you as a friend. Then, I’m gonna go explain things to Garrett because he might tell the whole school and get Pedro fired and/or me expelled, so thank you. You did this.” 

He doesn’t respond and you’re about to shout again until Stacy’s touch on your shoulder brings you back into focus. She nods towards the exit, her face unusually somber, grasping onto your hand and leading you back through the gate from which you’d entered. 

Once you’re back in the car, this time in the passenger seat with your head leaning against the window in defeat. “What do I do?” you ask Stacy, voice wavering with emotion.

“Call Garrett. Explain things. Be an adult and own up to your actions,” she answers. She doesn’t turn the car on, instead sits there staring at you until you respond.

“What are you? Dr. Phil?”

“When I need to be, yeah.” A beat. “Look, I’ll wait outside the car. Just… open yourself up to him. You need it and he deserves it.” With that, she’s out of the car and you watch through the rearview mirror as she leans against the trunk. 

_ Shit. Fuck.  _ Your hand trembles as you scroll through your contacts, finding Garrett’s name and staring at it. You’ve never had so much anxiety calling someone before. Well, that’s a lie, you really hate calling. But, the point is that you’ve been putting off talking to Garrett, not because you’re afraid of his reaction, but because you’re afraid of the guilt. 

You don’t want to regret something you’ve wanted for so long—that is, to break up with him, as bad as it sounds. You didn’t want it to rope you into getting back together with him all because you felt bad. And then everything with Pedro happened and complicated this mess you should’ve cleaned up instead of just shoving it under the metaphorical bed in your mind. 

_ Okay.  _ You hit call. It rings. Once. Twice. Then, “Charlie told me.”

“I figured.” You sigh in order to break the awkward tension, but it does nothing if not making you feel heavier

“So, let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your excuse, right?”

Another sigh is exhaled, and you tuck your knees up to your chin as best you can sitting in a car seat. “I didn’t call you to give you an excuse. I know what I did was shitty and saying sorry doesn’t fix jackshit. I called to explain. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Silence on his end. “I fell out of love with you.” The weight that lifts from your shoulders is tremendous. “A long time ago before anything with  _ him  _ happened. I’d been wanting to break up with you. His presence had no bearing on you, he only kickstarted ending things because it all happened so fast. Otherwise, I probably would’ve continued suffering for a long time.”

You feel light like a feather; suspended in air and waiting to fall.

“Why did you never talk to me?” he finally responds, the line crackling as he breathes deeply.

“Fear. I guess I thought feeling guilty for my feelings was worse than pretending that everything was fine.”

“That’s fair.”

_ What?  _ “That’s… not what I was expecting you to say.”

“You’d been acting differently. I knew it was only a matter of time, as much as I didn’t want to admit it.”

“So… you’re not mad?” And now you’re back on the ground, feet firmly planted and body balanced. 

“No, I’m mad. Cheating on me was kind of shitty of you, but I guess looking at it from an outsider’s perspective if I was unhappy enough I’d do the same thing.”

“Are you gonna tell everyone that I’m fucking my professor?”

“No?” He sounds appalled that you would even assume. “Why would I do that? Yeah, you shouldn’t have cheated, but ruining someone’s entire career and your reputation? Apparently I was a terrible boyfriend, but I’m not that terrible of a person.”

You bite your lip before saying, “You weren’t a terrible boyfriend, I was a terrible girlfriend… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re just going our separate ways now.”

Your goodbyes are simple and final, like a door closing fully. Like the turning of the last page of a chapter. You hold your phone in your hands, staring blankly down the endless street ahead of you. Then you rap your knuckles on the glass. 

“I wanna go home. I’m fucking exhausted,” you mumble once Stacy is back in the car.

You’re starting to feel like your life is just you staring emotionally out of car windows like you’re in some music video. Except, this time you’re just… numb. The digital clock on the dashboard glows 4:17 in a deep blue. It felt nice before, the weather perfect for you escapades with Pedro, but now goosebumps crawl over your arms and all you want to do is just cower under the covers and pretend things aren’t so fucking messed up right now. 

Well, you suppose they aren’t anymore. You’re officially no longer friends with Charlie after effectively burning that bridge. And things with Garrett ended differently but better than you expected. Most importantly, however, your secret is still a secret and Pedro is still in the dark about all of this. 

“You have to tell him.” Stacy is a fucking psychic apparently.

“I know…”

And you do. Look where not telling Garrett things got you. Now your only fear is his view of you changing completely. It was naive of you to even think for just a second that all that was gonna be between you was sex. Feelings suck ass—that’s your takeaway from all of this. 

You trudge up the stairs, eyelids and heart heavy, truly and utterly exhausted. The most you do is tug off your shoes before falling into bed and maneuvering until you’re under the covers. Screw class, you’re like to sleep through the next century. 

~ ~ ~

Next morning comes and goes and you finally wake up sometime before noon, hair a rat’s nest and deep, dark bags under your bloodshot eyes. You aren’t ready for this day to start and you’re mood hasn’t improved any since the night before. Anxiety courses through your entire body, so bad that you’ve picked at your nails and now the skin around them is raw and red. 

Stacy takes you to lunch at her favorite coffee shop in the effort to soothe your worries, but you can’t ignore it. You’re grateful either way—for her attempt and the avocado toast she’d paid for. But it’s simply not enough to distract you, especially as the time crawls closer and closer and you have no choice but to leave. 

Pedro had texted you asking why you weren’t in class and if everything was okay. His caring nature hurts. You’d responded that some things had happened and you just wanted to sleep in; that you needed to talk to him, so you’d be by on his lunch. 

Well, here you are outside his classroom, unshowered, still in the same clothes as the night before, and looking like you’d been dragged through hell and back. With a deep breath that does absolutely jackshit, you pull open the door and head towards his open office. Each step feels as if you’re walking in cement. 

You rap your knuckles on the glass, diverting his attention from the book he had been avidly reading. “Hey… you look awful,” he says, smile turning into a frown, worry creasing his brows. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I just… had a revelation last night,” you reply moving towards one of two chairs on the opposite side of his desk. You clear your throat before continuing, hating the silence as he waits for you to elaborate. “I had a boyfriend. Broke up with him before we became official, but not before we went on a date.”

All he does is hum in response, brain clearly running with thoughts as he struggles to find the words to say.

“I’ll spare you the details if you don’t care to know… or to know me anymore if that’s what you want.”

His face is somber as he finally asks, “Why didn’t you tell to me to begin with?”

“Guess I just don’t know how to deal with things, so I just shove them to the back of my mind. It’s no excuse, I know.”

He doesn’t look at you, only around the room to focus on various objects. Maybe it’s a mechanism to keep the emotions as bay. “On one hand, I want to be angry with you for not being outright at the start, but on the other, I want to be proud of you for coming clean at all. You could’ve just gone the whole relationship without saying a single word and I probably would’ve never known.”

“That’s why I have a proposition.” You’ve been thinking about this all night while you didn’t sleep. Mentally checking off the pros and cons, you’ve deduced this to be the best decision for the both of you. Unless Pedro doesn’t want anything to do with you at all, in which case you’ll back far away and wallow in your mistakes because you’re a terrible person.

“And what’s that?” Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise how well he’s handling everything. He is, after all, much older than you and an English professor. Of course, he’d be far more mature that you deserve.

“That we hold off on this-” You indicate with your finger between the both of you. “-until the end of the semester, at least.” Your eyes begin brimming with tears even after the pep talk you’d given yourself. 

“Why?”

Your words are choking you, but you say them anyway. “Because this situation is so precarious and my friend may very well expose us and I really don’t want you to lose your job because of me and my stupidity. I really like you, Pedro, but I’m not nearly good enough for you and part of me wanted to just cut this whole thing off altogether for your sake.”

You’re fully sobbing by now and Pedro jumps out of his seat to come around the desk and pull you into his arms. His arms that you feel so warm and safe in and arms that you’re going to miss and—

“I love you.”  _ What?  _ “And that’s why I agree with you.” He presses a long, loving kiss to the top of your hug, crushing you to his chest as if you’re going to disappear. You might as well be. “There’s too many risks, you’re right. But if we still fee the same about each other by the end when you’re no longer in my class, I’m taking you out on the fanciest date ever and then bring you back home to make love to you like never before.”

You begin laughing through the tears at the absurdity of his words and the situation. Damn him. Why did he have to go and be all charming and chivalrous and understanding? You should be punished for being the shitty person that you are, not smothered in…  _ love. He loves me. And I love him. What the fuck is my life? _

“I have to leave before I change my mind and jump you right here, right now,” you admit into his chest, voice muffled and vibrating throughout his body. The joke eases the tension and you smile as you hear, feel his contagious giggle. 

You pull back, hands gripping themselves tightly into his shirt, staring into his coffee eyes and seeing everything you’ve ever wanted and more. Your life is playing like a movie and thought of it hurts so good. What’s waiting a little longer? Selfishly, you push your lips to his in a last, desperate kiss. The finality of the act scares you even though you know from the bottom of your heart that you’ll feel them pressed against you in just a few short months. 

You pull away and stand up, moving towards the door silently. He leans against the desk as he does, a sad smile playing at his lips. “I love you, too,” you say before leaving.


	7. Part 7

Pedro and you made good on your promises to not see each other until the end of the semester. You ended up passing his class with a low B because of the constant daydreaming and longing stares thrown his way. You desperately hope he still feels as strongly for you as you do for him. Either way, it took all the willpower you held inside not to attack him after the final dismissal with his deep voice.

In case you’re wondering, you no longer speak to Charlie and he never said anything about your little tryst to anyone important (aside from Garrett, but you all saw how that turned out). He did end up dropping the class the following day of your argument and you honestly haven’t seen him since (aside from various glances of him chugging or snorting at some party or other). Part of you misses him and his drama, but the other part of you just might choke him because the seething anger is still there as a settled grudge. 

As for Garrett, things are… good between you. You don’t talk often or see each other, for that matter, but occasional greetings are said on the rare chance that you do cross paths. Last you heard, he was ‘talking’ to some new girl and the thought doesn’t make you as upset as you’d think. In fact, you’d go so far as to say you’re happy for him and hope it leads to something better than what you were able to give him. 

Things, life has been calm for a while. Now that it’s the first day of winter break and you’re lounging around at home (Stacy’s already gone to visit her parents, but you aren’t leaving for another day), you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. In all honesty, you just want Pedro. You want his arms around you again. You want his lips trailing down your neck. You want him singing along to oldies in the car as he drives you to nowhere and everywhere at once.

But you’re scared. Scared that he doesn’t want any of that. Scared that he’s going to deny you, reject you. So all you do is dejectedly stare at your phone, occasionally gaining just enough courage to hold it in your hand before dropping it back onto your bed. Each defeat is followed by a heavy, angry sigh. 

The silence is threatening to suffocate you, so you stand up to turn on your speaker, but just as you’ve gotten out of bed for the first time that day, muffle knocking sounds from the living room. You jump, the sound completely unexpected and unwelcome even more than the quiet.  _ Who the fuck…? _

You pad out on bare feet on the hardwood floor into the empty living room, only slightly nervous there are only a few instances in which someone would show up unannounced. Plaid pajama bottoms are loose on your hips, the ends long enough that you often trip over them, and you’re wearing a holey, worn Madonna t-shirt without a bra. Speaking of, you probably should’ve put one on before deciding to answer the door, but oh well.

Once you peek through the aptly named peek-hole, your breath catches in your throat and you’re throwing open the door so hard that it bangs against the wall. Pedro winces at the sound, eyebrows shooting up your sudden movements. 

“Hi,” he greets, laughing and, god, what a fucking sound it is.

“Hi.” It’s breathless and whispered and ends as if there’s so much more you need to say except you don’t quite know what it is.

“So, I thought it would’ve been indecent of me to just sweep in and kiss you without saying anything first, so I love you, I still love you, and I really hope this ends in the bedroom.”

You blink owlishly at him, then smile wickedly. “Just fucking get in here already.”

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, scattered clothes, and stumbling all the way to your bed where you fall in a midst of pillows and blankets. You feel like you’re relapsing an addiction you had almost gotten rid of. His lips and tongue are too much and not enough all at the same time.

“I fucking missed you,” he says trailing his down your navel and crooking two fingers inside of you.

You writhe against the sheets, the sensations far better than you’d ever been able to do with an overactive imagination. You practically scream once his tongue joins his ministrations.

“Fucking missed these sounds.”

You’re coming faster than you’d ever thought physically possible, but apparently that’s what Pedro fucking does to you.  _ Holy shit.  _

He stares up at you from his perch on your stomach, mischief glinting in his dark eyes. “This is just the first of many I plan to give you.”

~ ~ ~

The following morning finds the two of you snuggling in bed, slow, lazy morning sex, and milling about the kitchen to cook breakfast together. Music floats from your speaker and the two of you sing along to Redbone’s ‘Come and Get Your Love’ as you crack eggs into the sizzling pan.

Pedro holds another pan. “Watch this,” he says, sweatpants low on his hips and stance far too professional for flipping a pancake.

He tries, but as it does indeed flip in the air, he miscalculates where to catch it and it ends up sliding off the side and onto the floor. “No!” you shout, giggling at the mess of half-made, half-batter pancake all over the floor.

You eat side-by-side on the couch, some old show playing on the tv, your conversation vivid and amiable like you hadn’t just gone months without speaking to one another other than the occasional student-to-teacher chatter. You’re so unbelievably happy.

~ ~ ~

You take Pedro to meet your parents. They were, understandably, shocked upon hearing his age, but happy nonetheless. They said you were glowing, that you seemed livelier than before. Your happiness is their happiness. 

They love him. He fits in so well with his dorkish nature, with his childhood anecdotes and knowledge on all things literature. Your mother says he’s cute, good-looking. Your father says he’s a good man, one he wouldn’t mind walking you down the aisle toward. 

That confession has you spitting up the white wine, choking on the sweet taste. Marriage is something you want, but something you felt was far too early to be considering. At the very least, you’re glad your father has your consent, though it wouldn’t surprise you if Pedro is the type of man to ask your father for your hand. A bit primitive (and the feminist in you declares your father should have no say over your love life), but the idea that Pedro’s considering your family is sweet in a way. 

He takes you to meet his on a vacation trip to Chile the following summer. You think they love you if the constant affection is anything to go by. You were nervous, shaking limbs and restless legs the entire plane ride that Pedro had to reassure you every ten minutes that everything would be fine. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken to meet everyone all at once, he admits, but he just couldn’t wait to bring you to his homeland.

That admission alone makes your heart swell with adoration.

The two of you lay together on the balcony overlooking the sprawling mountains in the distance, the weather just breaching the sixties. He tells you of the future instead of the past, for once. Of what he wishes to happen, of the life he still wants to live. You’re mentioned in every scenario

~ ~ ~

Stacy’s girlfriend moves in and you move out into Pedro’s apartment. A big step you’ve been more than ready to take. He sits you down on the couch and you know he’s wanting to speak about something important because he always does that—grab your shoulders with both hands, leveling his gaze with you, bringing you to sit next to him.

You’ve told him about Stacy’s girlfriend, so he figures it’s the most convenient time to ask before he loses his nerve. He isn’t even able to finish the sentence before you’re screaming yes and flying in, arms out, and knocking him back against the couch cushions. It’s also the first time you two have sex on the couch, but you make Pedro put Edgar in another room because his staring at you is weird. 

The funny thing is that there’s not much for you to move that you haven’t already slowly throughout your relationship. Widening his closet and shoving clothes to the side, clearing more space for those toiletries you use for ‘special’ nights; really, the only difference is you now call this place home, but Pedro has always been home to you.

Your first night officially moved in, Pedro attempts his best at cooking your dinner. The firemen are called on the complex because neither of you are able to fan away the smoke billowing from the burnt chicken before the alarm is set off. And then neither of you knows how to turn the damn thing off, either. 

It’s a story you bring up at any given opportunity.

~ ~ ~

It’s been two years since you’ve graduated (in which, you fondly remember fumbling into Pedro’s office, once again, robes and all, to fuck in celebration) and you’re currently working as an editor for a small publishing company. A job you’d acquired by pure luck because of your boyfriend’s vast chain of People. People different from people because People are the ones who can get you places.

You’re laying under blankets, sprawled on the couch with a bag of cookies on one side and Edgar on the other and your laptop in between open on a page covered in the chicken-scratch of edits. You swat at Edgar as he licks at the crumbs stuck to your chin, laughing at how much his tongue tickles. 

Keys fumbling in the lock sounds throughout the room before the door swings open and you shout, “Welcome home, honey! Have some dinner that I didn’t make because this isn’t the fucking fifties!”

“What are you going on about?” He tosses his shit on the table and trudges towards you, kneeling down on the soft carpet, laying his head at your feet. 

“I took a quiz made in 1952 to see how I’d fare as a housewife and I failed miserably.”

“What, did it say things like ‘do you bend to your husband’s every will’?” You’re about to respond before, “You only need to do that in the bedroom, it’s okay.”

“Pedro!”

He giggles, eyes squinting and that cute dimple appearing as he dodges your hand. 

“I’m gonna change and then I have a very important question to ask you,” he says, giving Edgar a good scratch on the head before disappearing down the hallway. 

You only a half-hearted ‘okay’, busying yourself with finishing this edit so you can relax at home like you should’ve been doing the whole time. You don’t notice how long it takes him to change out of a suit into lazy, lounging clothes. You don’t notice him peering his head of the doorframe to watch you every few seconds. You don’t notice his position until he says your name.

A gasp is pulled from your throat and your eyes widen to the size of literal saucers when you see him kneeling in sweats and a ratty t-shirt, an open box with a shining ring resting in it open towards you.

“Will you marry me?” he asks and his eyes are shining with love and adoration and any other synonym you suddenly can’t remember for those words.

“No…”

Confusion and a little bit of fear pull at his beaming face. “Are you saying no to marrying me?”

_ Oh. My. Fucking. God.  _ You sit up, Edgar barking at the sudden movement pushing him off of the couch. “No! I mean, yes, I’ll marry you, I just… can’t believe this is happening.”

Tears rim your eyes, but you manage to roll them anyway as Pedro laughs in relief and mockery. “You scared the shit out of me for a minute there.”

You kiss him good and hard as he slides the ring onto your finger.


End file.
